I couldn't help but ask (for you to say it all again)
by Listening to trees
Summary: The first time he hears the legend, he's standing some 60 feet away from it. This will be the only time his feet and its foundations stand on the same soil.


The first time he hears the legend, he's standing some 60 feet away from it. This will be the only time his feet and its foundations stand on the same soil. He's not usually a surly fellow -it's never been his nature, and it pays to be friendly in the business -but he finds grunting half-politely at the drink-lubricated local the best he can do. 

That year had only been the second anniversary since he lost more than his arm. 

There is a bridge, they say. Not the stone bridge the naked eye can see, but something more ephemeral, in that place, that stretches to the outskirts of life's kingdom. They say that it was no coincidence the aqueduct was built where it was, shaped as it was, between the ley-lines and the stars. They will argue that the Romans built it; no, the Celts, even if captured later to honour a two-faced god. But whatever they dispute they will all agree on this: that at the right time of the year, with the right sacrifice, that bridge will lead you to whomever you wish. And because this is the favourite story in that little town, at this point will come the good-natured arguments on whose dead neighbours and acquaintances and spouses were or were not seen. 

But Joseph had no use for wishful thinking. He had even less use for painful reminders, and so he was a little drunker that night than he'd usually let himself be. 

He wished he had not dream that night of a never-forgotten smile, and wished that he no longer dreamed of it. 

Wishful thinking indeed. 

He catches a glimpse of it the second time in a short, time-idling tour of England's architectural history. Just a cursory mention, quickly lost in the famous-names jumble. The wound had scabbed over a decade by then, so it provided no significant bother. That did not mean it did not itch. 

He then undergoes the next 50 years never stirred by that name again. He builds his empire, collects more scars and hugs more people, because he never learned how to stop being in love. He shatters himself still every other long summer in his sleep, then wakes up and goes on. For there is nothing heavier than a vow that no tragedy must forever cast a shadow. 

But because he doesn't want to die without seeing him again, and because an old person's memories has its quirks, he plucks that name randomly out from under his mental cobwebs. He doesn't even recall that it's an aqueduct; it takes his grandson's Googling to remind him of that. His grandson, who is no romantic, and who argues forever and a day against it. The weather there is going to be terrible. You can't even walk anymore. Old man, don't be ridiculous. It's just a silly legend. Old man. Old man. 

And that's the heart of the issue, isn't it? He's an old man now. He's a very old man. He's a man that's lost too much, bled too much, and would like one less regret on his deathbed. If you never try, you never know. _Please, Jotaro._

His grandson sighs. His grandson, too, starts to looks old. 

His grandson is right. The weather is terrible is an understatement. Forecast calls it the thickest snowfall in 10 years; cue the bandying about of climate science by TV experts. Doesn't matter either way. He had not turned a single step back after he made his promise. He will not back down now. 

"You're going to die out there." 

"Like I'm doing to die from bone cancer." 

Jotaro looks away. Then he walks out for a second smoke. 

Unsurprisingly, it does take a lot of Jotaro's help. It's nigh impossible to wheelchair yourself across the wintry wilderness after all. Or carve sigils into the icy soil with a knife. Much less try to light a small fire with the right herbs and incense. The sacrifice had turned out to be four drops of blood- how cliché –but he also adds a flask of his old friend's (his old_ everything_, once, so long ago) beef stroganoff for good measure. The ceremony might not be Chinese, but Caesar certainly wouldn't be the type to care, would he? Or maybe the half-assed mix of pagan magics might just send him into a strong enough outrage to appear, just cuff him upside the head. 

It's a long wait from there. They barely last beyond the end of the ritual outside before seeking refuge in the van. Jotaro, his ever thoughtful and cute grandson, had brought along two heaters, but even that did nothing to drive away the cold-pain from his creaking bones. That's partly the reason why he lasts even as Jotaro goes to sleep, so he knows, he _knows_ that Caesar never showed. 

They are both quiet that dawn as they packed to go home. 

He dies in his bed at home, three weeks later. He dies one quiet morning, leaving behind his beloved daughter, grandson and five-month-old granddaughter. But Joseph Joestar does not die a bitter, disappointed man. He dies with a soft smile on his face. 

There is a bridge, they say. At the right time of the year, with the right sacrifice, the bridge will lead you to whomever you wish. But who among them said how long it would take? Who among them could say it wasn't just the midnight hallucinations of drunks and fools and dying old men? 

The locals would have shrugged good-naturedly at this point. Who knows?


End file.
